


Arrange Your Face

by nantdisglair



Category: Onmyouji | The Yin-Yang Master (Movies)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26970445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nantdisglair/pseuds/nantdisglair
Summary: One of Seimei's colleagues is missing. One of Hiromasa's friends is killed. Clearly it's the work of a demon--but which one?
Relationships: Abe no Seimei/Minamoto no Hiromasa
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Arrange Your Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estelraca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/gifts).



There was an art to the delivery of a morning-after letter. The correct sort of paper should be chosen, and the calligraphy matched to the mood one wished to invoke, not to mention the necessity for just the right flower or sprig of greenery to bind the letter. And, of course, there was the requirement that the bearer of the letter was every bit as attractive and charming as the recipient.

The morning-after letter Hiromasa carried tucked against his heart succeeded in meeting one of those conditions. The paper was exquisite, pale yellow fading to white. As for everything else… He squared his shoulders and made an irritated sound. Everything else would have been perfect, had it not been for the summons from the Board of Censors at the palace. Because of that, his calligraphy was slapdash, the flower he’d grabbed at on his way out had inadvertently been beheaded by his clumsy fingers, and, well, he was delivering his own letter, and what could be more gauche than that?

Never mind that Seimei wouldn’t care about any of it. It was the principle of the thing. 

At least he was content with his poem. Hiromasa turned his face up to the touch of the sunlight as he strolled out of the Board of Censors, past the Ministry of War, and made his way to the left of the palace. White gravel crunched beneath his boots. Distantly, from beyond the high walls, a cuckoo sounded its call. Hiromasa beamed at friends and acquaintances, bowing to some, complimenting others on their colour combinations or their victories in the latest shell-matching game.

He turned a corner and headed for the comparatively ramshackle building adjacent to the Ministry for Central Affairs. The tiles on the swooping roof of the Bureau of Divination were a faded blue-green crazed with cracks, and though the pillars were painted with a fresh coat of vermilion every year and green bamboo blinds hung at the windows, and the veranda was swept and polished each morning, the building still contrived to look a little bit sinister.

Not that Hiromasa had anything to fear. How could he, when he carried a morning-after letter for the most powerful yin yang master at court? A letter which, he was sure, would convince Seimei to abandon whatever work he was currently engaged in and spend the afternoon on Hiromasa’s estate.

He hoped Seimei would be amenable. If not, his only other option for entertainment lay in the invitation of his fellow guardsman, Kusunoki no Tokimochi, who’d invited Hiromasa to come to his rooms for a drink.

Tokimochi was a good sort, a fine shot with the bow and possessing an excellent singing voice, which made him a favourite in the palace. He served a decent enough vintage, but was prone to chattering on and on about his love affairs. Ordinarily Hiromasa was all in favour of listening to breathless recitations of romantic entanglement, especially when the lady in question was both beautiful and mysterious, but something about Tokimochi’s latest love made him uneasy.

The crackle of folded papers inside his robes was a reminder that he should return the poems Tokimochi had entrusted to him at their last meeting. The contents, examples of the mystery lady’s verses, were quite different to the poems to which Hiromasa aspired. They lacked the delicacy of a connoisseur, in his opinion, but there was always the possibility that he was out of touch with the most modish way of expressing oneself.

It was all very well embracing one lover closely—and Hiromasa very much enjoyed embracing Seimei as often as his friend would tolerate—but the problem with monogamy was that one ran the risk of falling out of fashion in any number of things. Poetry, for example.

The thought gave him pause as he mounted the steps. Perhaps he should rework his own poem. Then he remembered he’d been composing it for the better part of the morning, and if he started doubting himself now, he’d never get it finished. Decision made, Hiromasa ducked beneath a curtain of paper charms and entered the Bureau of Divination.

The smoky sweetness of burning incense followed him around the internal courtyard. A butterfly danced over a pool of water, and Hiromasa had to look twice to be sure it wasn’t Mitsumushi. As he approached Seimei’s office, he was intrigued by the laughter and muffled sounds of conversation from within. Seimei was always complaining about the dullness of his colleagues, and yet here he was, apparently quite at ease and enjoying their company.

“Seimei!” Hiromasa opened the door and felt the smile freeze on his face.

There was no one in the room. No one besides Seimei, of course, who held out a hand just in time to catch a book that fell out of thin air.

“Ah,” said Seimei, “it’s you.”

Hiromasa crossed the threshold and looked around, suspicious.

With a small sigh, Seimei set the book on a shelf. It immediately shuffled across to join another volume, nudging up against the second book as if telling it to move. The second book stood its ground, then flipped open its cover with such force the first book shot across the shelf and teetered on the edge.

“Behave,” Seimei told it, and the book fell facedown to lie still.

Hiromasa blew out a breath. The room looked like a demon had blasted through, jumbling all the books and scrolls from the shelves and leaving more than half of them tossed about the floor. On the topmost shelf, furthest from the window, a series of cherrywood boxes were stacked higgledy-piggledy. 

Folding his hands, Seimei stood motionless, the light through the bamboo blinds gleaming on the glossed black silk of his formal court robes. He tilted his head, the gauze tails of his court cap fluttering, and watched Hiromasa with an amused expression.

Certain of what he would find, Hiromasa swept his gaze about the office. His attention snagged on papers pinned to the wall: a list of recent burials across the city, calculations of directional taboos, and a drawing of the mirror from the Katori shrine. Then he saw them—two clusters of white and pink flowers on the floor.

Hiromasa pointed with a dramatic gesture. “Seimei, are you using shikigami to tidy your office?”

“Not tidying, rearranging.” Seimei flicked out his sleeves and leaned back against a long bench, upon which a dozen or so unopened scrolls lay scattered. “It was the suggestion of the Chief of the Bureau for me to organise the volumes not by subject, but by age and geographical origin.”

He waved a languid hand in the direction of the flowers. The pink and the white blossoms scuttled towards him, followed by a paper cut-out that slid from beneath the desk. “It seemed appropriate to request the assistance of the Orange Tree of the Right for the Chinese texts and the Cherry Tree of the Left for writings from our own shores. For knowledge gleaned beyond those regions, I simply used a paper doll.”

“Of course you did.” Really, Hiromasa wasn’t sure why Seimei still had the power to surprise him. He should be accustomed to things like this by now. “And why do you require the assistance of shikigami for this task? Surely you are more than capable of rearranging a library.”

“I’m busy,” Seimei said mildly.

Hiromasa directed a pointed look at the desk. A delicate porcelain cup sat beside a teapot of Korean celadon, while sheets of pristine Michinoku paper, freshly ground black ink, and an assortment of brushes awaited notes yet to be made.

“Busy,” Seimei said, unravelling one of the scrolls on the bench to reveal symbols and closely-written text, “reading the horoscopes of my colleagues.”

“Horoscopes?”

“Mm. It’s customary, upon appointment to the Bureau, for a yin yang master to have his horoscope cast by the most senior official.”

Curious, Hiromasa asked, “Are you reading your own?”

Seimei’s eyebrows arched into a faintly disbelieving hauteur. “I do not have a horoscope on record. It would be entirely unnecessary.”

“Whose horoscope are you reading, then?” Hiromasa took a few steps closer, trying to see a name on the scroll.

Seimei lifted his hand and let the paper roll up with a snap. “One of my colleagues, a fellow who is usually as reliable as the clepsydra he tends, has become rather erratic of late. I do not know the man socially, and others I have consulted tell me he is prone to sudden whims and fancies, but all the same, there is something odd about his behaviour.”

Changing tack, Hiromasa took up position behind the desk and settled onto the cushions. “So you thought you’d consult his horoscope for an explanation for the change in his behaviour.”

“Yes.”

“Well.” Hiromasa touched his fingers to the pot, and finding it still warm, poured himself a cup of tea. It was an utterly unfashionable beverage; only the most crackpot physicians prescribed it, but Seimei claimed it help him concentrate when he was at work. Hiromasa took a sip, humming at the pleasantly bitter taste, and continued, “Did you find anything useful?

Seimei took the tea from him. “Not yet.”

“And you chastise me for listening to gossip!”

Steam rose from the cup, darkening Seimei’s eyelashes. He drank, then said, “Reading a horoscope is in no way analogous to listening to court gossip.”

Hiromasa laughed. “Let’s see, shall we? What’s the name of your colleague?”

“Ogawa no Jiro. He is one of the professors of chrononomy and our most experienced hemerologist.” At Hiromasa’s blank look, Seimei put the cup down and explained, “He’s an expert in timekeeping and knows more than almost any other living soul on how to determine the correct times to hold imperial, public, and private rituals.”

“I see,” Hiromasa said, though he rather thought he didn’t. He slid the teacup back towards him, toying with it. “Well, I don’t know your Lord Jiro. Never heard of him. Although, wait… Isn’t he married to Lady Emon, the sister of Lord Kusunoki no Kiyonori?”

It was Seimei’s turn to look mystified. “I regret, Hiromasa, that I have not the slightest idea.”

“It’s the same man, I’m sure of it!” Warming to his theme, Hiromasa waved his hands and dislodged a couple of the brushes, which went rolling across the desk. “My friend Tokimochi—he’s Chief of the Bureau of the Left Military Storehouses, a tremendously boring job—he’s mentioned his uncle-by-marriage several times. Apparently Lord Jiro is under considerable pressure from his family to take a junior wife. The potential bride is a member of the Fujiwara clan—a minor branch, to be sure, but still, it’s an honour to be considered—but he’s resisting the marriage.”

Seimei retrieved the cup and took an elegant sip. “Do you know the reason why?”

“According to Tokimochi, it’s a terrible thing.” Hiromasa leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “Lord Jiro is said to be so in love with his wife, he will do nothing to cause her the slightest amount of pain.”

Seimei pursed his lips and made a rough sound in his throat.

Pleased at having imparted his knowledge, Hiromasa sat back. “What do you think of that, hmm? I know it’s horribly old-fashioned for a man to be in love with his partner, but…”

Seimei stared at the orange blossom on the floor, apparently lost in thought. “Are you sure?”

“That being in love is old-fashioned?” Hiromasa blinked. “Well, yes. But then, I am somewhat traditional when it comes to things that matter, Seimei, as I hope you’re already aware—”

“Not that.” A frown creased Seimei’s smooth brow. “Are you certain that Lord Jiro loves his wife?”

“Tokimochi told me so only recently. Lord Jiro’s refusal to even consider the match with the Fujiwara girl is causing no small amount of embarrassment.”

“Well, then. I wonder.” Seimei dropped into one of his silences, withdrawing into himself. His gaze strayed towards the scrolls on the bench, then he visibly shook himself out of his reverie. “Now, Hiromasa, what brings you here?”

“Can a man not greet a friend at his place of employment?”

“Not when the man in question finds said place of employment—and I quote—‘creepy’.”

“Seimei! This place _is_ creepy…”

Seimei smiled gently and took another drink of tea. “Hiromasa.”

“Oh, very well, then.” Nervous now, aware of the pulse beating in his throat, Hiromasa reached into the folds of his court robes and withdrew the morning-after letter. He placed it on the desk between them, wincing inwardly at his poor presentation. “This is for you.”

Seimei raised his eyebrows, setting down the cup again and picking up the letter. “It is almost the hour of the Horse.”

“I wrote it much earlier.”

“Mm.” He curled a finger around the drooping stem that tied the note. “Your regard warms my heart.”

A blush burned across Hiromasa’s face. “When I picked it, there was a flower attached. A pretty white flower with a subtle pink stripe on each petal. It fell off.”

That earned him a slanting smile. “Really, Hiromasa, I don’t know why you insist on maintaining the tradition when you know I won’t reply.”

“But you might,” Hiromasa said. “One day you might, and all of my poetry will have been worth it, just to win that one poem of yours in return.”

The sharp expression softened, the mocking smile fading into something tender. “Ah. You are too good.” Seimei discarded the battered flower-stem, opened the letter and read, his lips moving silently as if he were casting a spell.

Hiromasa held his breath, picturing the lines he’d written on the page:

_Last night in the dark, a fox’s cry  
This morning, prints upon dewed grass  
Oh what will the afternoon bring?_

Longing overwhelmed him. He fidgeted with the empty teacup, tipping it towards him to examine the pattern of the leaves, then lined up the brushes and straightened the stack of paper. It was ridiculous to be so uncertain after all this time, but he’d decided long ago never to take Seimei’s affections for granted, and this continuous state of hopeful wooing was the result.

Seimei looked up, a glint in his eyes. “I can give you an answer directly.” He came closer and leaned down, lips close to Hiromasa’s ear, close enough for the fan of his warm breath to brush Hiromasa’s cheek. “I must work this afternoon, but this evening you will be very welcome at my house.”

Disappointment turned to elation. “Good. Ah, I mean— Excellent.” Hiromasa beamed, which was unseemly of him, but he didn’t care.

“Now I really must work,” Seimei said, turning away with a small sigh.

“Yes. Of course.” Not yet ready to be dismissed, Hiromasa rose from the desk and, avoiding the flowers and paper doll still lounging on the floor, made his way to the bench to look at the horoscopes. Most had ribbons and seals attached, the colours presumably identifying the master who’d cast them. He picked one at random, only to snatch back his hand with a yelp as the paper began to crumble. “Some of these must be very old!”

Seimei glanced up from re-reading the morning-after letter. “Those kept in the boxes date to before the founding of the city.”

“Before Heian-Kyo?”

“The previous city,” Seimei corrected. “Before the founding of Nara.”

Hiromasa stared at the scrolls in astonishment. “Aside from Lord Jiro’s horoscope, what is it that you’re looking for in all these others?”

With a fluid gesture, Seimei slipped the morning-after letter inside his court robes and came to stand beside Hiromasa. Ignoring Lord Jiro’s horoscope, he took up another, broke the seal, and unrolling it across the bench, bent over it, fingers tracing the lines of the diagrams inked upon it. “It is useful to know things about one’s colleagues.”

“I thought you avoided competition.”

“It rather depends on the nature of the contest.” Straightening, Seimei offered a brief smile, his eyes hooded. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

~~~

“How much further is it?” Assistant Captain Nagara slapped at a mosquito that had been feasting on his neck, leaving a smear of blood on his skin. He scowled, scratching at another bite. “Why didn’t you bring your ox-cart?”

“It’s quicker to go on foot,” Tokimochi said, using his sleeve to wipe at the sweat running down his face. “Besides, my lady wished for me to come on foot as a way of proving my devotion.”

Nagara rolled his eyes at Hiromasa, who hid a smile. There were worse tests a woman could demand of her lover. “Perhaps Tokimochi’s lady admires the healthy flush of exertion on a man’s face.”

“I can think of better ways to achieve that look than walking.” Nagara leered.

Tokimochi laughed, but refused to be drawn when Nagara started pressing him for details of previous exertions he’d shared with his mystery lady.

Hiromasa let their chatter wash over him and focused on where they were heading. The south-west quarter of the capital was a place he ventured only rarely, especially the wards closest to the crumbling city walls. The houses were old and tumbledown, estates long abandoned to the wilderness. Due to the proximity of the Katsura River, the ground was marshy and the air full of unpleasant vapours and biting insects. Only the poorest of common folk made their homes here, and the criminal element was rife.

They had been followed for a short while by a swaggering group of sunbeaten vagabonds, but Hiromasa and his companions were armed, Nagara still in his guardsman’s uniform with its armour, a quiver full of arrows, and his bow slung across his back.

The ruffians had melted away as the houses became more ruinous. Miasma hung in the air, a solid heat with the stink of rotten vegetation and the sweetness of decay. Hiromasa covered the lower half of his face with his sleeve and wished he’d worn fewer layers. Sweat had soaked through his silks, and he longed for a cool breeze.

Tokimochi strode on, apparently oblivious to the discomfort of the afternoon. But then, he had a prize waiting for him—his mysterious lady, who had apparently extended an invitation not only to her beloved, but to his friends. 

“We are to take the afternoon rice with her,” Tokimochi had declared, when Hiromasa had arrived at his friend’s rooms in the palace earlier. “She will play and sing for us as the sun sets, and we will drink wine together and celebrate my good fortune at finding the perfect woman.”

Tokimochi’s fervour concerned Hiromasa a little. He fretted that his friend would be disappointed in his love, that the lady would turn out to belong to an unsuitable family or that her intentions towards Tokimochi were base and shallow. But whenever Hiromasa tried to raise his worries, Tokimochi dismissed them out of hand.

His lady was perfect in face and form, he claimed, with lustrous hair so dark it shone like a river at midnight. Her clothes were exquisite, her voice gentle and charming. She was a widow, living alone in seclusion; her husband had been the deputy governor of a minor province and had died while away in office.

Thus she was no shrinking maiden hiding away on her father’s estate, but a woman who knew what she wanted. And judging by the poems Hiromasa had seen, the lady was quite shockingly forward in demanding it. In bold handwriting on unfortunately cheap paper, Tokimochi’s mystery woman wrote verses full of explicit images of brushes plunging into welling ink, flames burning through paper, and otters diving into limpid pools.

The vulgarity of her poems seemed at odds with Tokimochi’s ecstatic descriptions of her dress and manners. But then, Hiromasa thought, blinking sweat from his eyes, a person could not be good at everything. Perhaps his uncertainty about the lady was nothing more than envy that his friend had a lover who sent poetry, and he did not.

Nagara dropped back to nudge Hiromasa. “Why are you moping? This is an adventure! I haven’t been to this part of the city for a good few years. Last time was when I had that tasty piece tucked away in a house on Doso Avenue. Remember her? With the twin sister? Eh?”

Hiromasa summoned a smile from somewhere and muttered a response. He couldn’t keep track of Nagara’s romances, and suspected that more than half of them were the products of his friend’s fertile imagination.

“Let’s hope Tokimochi’s mistress has a couple of pretty maids.” Nagara winked. “I’m getting thirsty with all this walking and fancy a nice cool… drink.”

The smile began to strain credulity. Hiromasa wished he hadn’t agreed to come along on this visit.

A grey cloud scudded across the sun, but instead of lowering the temperature, it seemed to grow warmer. A damp, hot wind picked up, stirring litter on the street and wafting the stink of a cesspit directly at them. From a pile of rubbish a cat hissed and yowled, and a sleek brown rat scurried across their path.

They headed due west along Hachijo Avenue, and Hiromasa remembered the calculations pinned to the wall of Seimei’s office. “This direction is unlucky today.”

Tokimochi laughed off the warning. “How can it be unlucky, when this is the way to my heart’s desire?”

Nagara clapped Hiromasa on the back, then flipped a hand up to dislodge Hiromasa’s court cap, tipping it forward. “Loosen up a little and live dangerously! I swear you were never this particular about taboos until you started sleeping with that yin yang master.”

Irritation prickled over Hiromasa’s skin as he righted his cap. His relationship with Seimei might be common knowledge at the palace, but all the same, it was something he preferred to keep private.

His expression must have given away his thoughts. Nagara laughed at him, aiming a playful punch. “Doesn’t Seimei care enough about you to give you a protective spell when you go about the city?”

“ _Lord_ Seimei, to you,” Hiromasa ground out. He thought of the shapes Seimei traced on his bare skin at night, the low, purring whispers that never seemed to form words he recognised. Hiromasa didn’t know if they were spells or just idle caresses and esoteric expressions of affection. He’d never wanted to ask.

Dropping a hand to the hilt of his sword, he glared at Nagara.

The assistant captain skipped back, armour clattering as he lifted his hands in apology. “No need for that, man, just joking. We’re all friends here, right? Right?”

“Give it a rest, you two.” Tokimochi gave them a stern glance over his shoulder, then grinned. “I have to concentrate on the directions. Right here, I think, then up Kitsuji Avenue for a few blocks…”

“We should have cut through West Market,” Nagara grumbled. “A bite to eat, a jar of wine, and all the girls you want in the Willow Quarter.”

“I don’t want just any girl,” Tokimochi said with exaggerated patience. “I want you to meet _my_ girl.”

Nagara booted a clod of mud out of the way. “I really hope she has pretty maids. I’m exhausted after all this exercise and need something to raise my… spirits.” He laughed at his own wit and backhand-slapped Hiromasa. “Get it? Raise my spirits?”

Hiromasa hid a weary sigh. It was going to be a long afternoon.

The houses became more ruinous, tiles lying shattered on the ground, pavilions leaning to the side like drunks. Underfoot, the going was so damp the three friends found it necessary to pick up the trains of their robes for a short distance.

At the crossroads stood a shrine, the dedication weathered away. Offerings had been left on it; not just simple objects that a commoner might leave, flowers or a few grains of rice, but richer offerings too, sweet cakes, silk ribbons, a candle still burning with an upright flame.

Letting his companions go ahead, Hiromasa paused to genuflect in front of the unknown spirit or deity that occupied the shrine, and felt in his robes for a gift. He pulled out a sheet of folded paper with crumbs of incense inside, soft dark scraps of fragrance he’d taken from the winner of a recent comparison game. With a little adjustment, the perfume would be perfect for summer. He’d intended to try to create his own version, but there was enough here that it would make an ideal gift.

Hiromasa poured the incense onto the shrine, set it smouldering from the candle, then bowed again and hurried after his friends.

One final turn, and Tokimochi’s pace increased. Anticipation burned from his features, and he gestured to Hiromasa and Nagara to catch up.

“This is it?” Nagara’s tone was doubtful.

Hiromasa knew better than to judge from first appearances, but he had to admit the lady’s house was in a far more advanced state of decay than he’d expected. The roof of the main hall slumped inwards, all but a few of the tiles having slipped from their moorings long ago. Attempts had been made to patch the holes with sedge, but even that was in poor repair, bits hanging off or sprouting with weeds.

The gates were off their hinges, propped open against a fence that was swamped with morning glory. The garden must have been lovely once but was now a snarled mess of overgrown ferns, creeping vines, and masses of knotweed. Looking closely, Hiromasa saw the remains of a silvery carp abandoned close by the black waters of a pond. It seemed as if some animal, a cat or a fox, had caught the creature and taken only a bite out of it before leaving the rest to rot.

As they approached, the whirring of the insects fell silent. The air went still, as it did before a thunderstorm broke. Hiromasa wanted to catch at Tokimochi’s cloak to pull him back, but his friend strode eagerly ahead.

Hiromasa’s unease increased. He saw holes splintered through the veranda steps and shutters hanging loose. A sense of desolation drifted about the estate. Surely no one could live here. Tokimochi’s lady was playing a joke on him.

But then Tokimochi gasped and stood quivering like a hound straining at the leash. He pointed, turned shining eyes to his friends. “There she is! Do you see her? She comes to greet us!” Careless of his rank and reputation, he ran towards the house with arms outstretched, calling out, “Yoriko! My love!”

A suggestion of pale draperies moving past the open double doors made Hiromasa blink. He made to follow Tokimochi, but Nagara grabbed at his sleeve.

“I think we should leave.” Nagara stared at the house, colour draining from his face. “Right now, Hiromasa. We should go.”

“So soon? But you wanted to spend the afternoon with Tokimochi’s lady and her maids. Surely you’re not afraid of flirting? I admit it’s an unprepossessing place for romance,” although now he looked again, Hiromasa saw that he’d been hasty in his judgement and that actually the house was quite sound, “but look, the east wing seems in less of a state of disrepair. It could be charming inside…”

Tremors ran through Nagara’s body, setting the arrows in his quiver rattling. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and hunched down slightly as Tokimochi, laughing, leapt onto the veranda and dashed inside the house.

“There!” Nagara snatched at Hiromasa’s arm, fingers digging in tight. “May the gods preserve us! Do you _see_ her?”

“Tokimochi’s lady? Where?” Hiromasa tried to shake Nagara off and peered past the bobbing heads of the morning glories, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious beauty. Distracted by a flash of white from the corner of his eye, he started to turn, but then he saw a blur of movement further along the veranda.

The rotten blinds were pushed aside by a pale hand, and a woman appeared in the gap.

Hiromasa stared.

The lady looked back, steadily and without any attempt at guile. He had only the merest glimpse of her face before she whisked her fan across to hide her features and stepped back behind the blinds. Just the merest glimpse, but he felt struck to the heart. The lady was as beautiful as Tokimochi had described, only Hiromasa saw no lust in her eyes but a calm intelligence. Surely his friend had it wrong. This was no wanton widow casting for a virile young lover, but a lady of refinement, with poetry in her soul!

“No!” wailed Nagara, dragging Hiromasa around by his sleeve. “She’s ensnared you, too! Can’t you see? She’s monstrous! An evil old hag!” He flinched, taking a step back, left arm uplifted as if to ward off a blow. “By all the gods! Her eyes burn me!” Frantic, he shoved at Hiromasa, sending him staggering. “Run, Hiromasa! I will protect you—I will—”

Nagara pulled the bow from his shoulder and in a fluid move, notched an arrow to the string. He began to draw, but his arm shook as if the effort was costing him all the strength he had. The arrow-point dipped, then he dropped the weapon. His breath wheezed and his lips turned blue, his eyes bulging in terror.

Shocked, Hiromasa grabbed for his friend as Nagara collapsed. He knelt beside the assistant captain and loosened the collar of his top-robe, but Nagara clawed at him, face turning a mottled shade as he laboured to breathe.

“Hold on!” West Market was in the next ward. If he ran, if he could find a physician… But what if Nagara perished in the time it took him to run for assistance? Hiromasa hooked his hands beneath his friend’s arms and dragged him back to the crossroads shrine. If nothing else, it was a place of sanctuary, and the deity who lived there might look kindly upon Hiromasa’s request.

He was out of breath himself by the time they reached the shrine. Laying Nagara down and turning him onto his side, Hiromasa knelt and bowed his forehead to the ground. “O spirit, guardian of the city, whoever you are, please help my friend!”

“Hiromasa?”

Surely not. His mind was playing tricks. He’d got heat stroke. This was all a fever dream. Righting his court cap again, Hiromasa slowly unbent and stared up in disbelief.

Seimei stood a few paces behind the shrine, dressed now in his customary white hunting-costume. He looked as startled as Hiromasa felt, and was supporting by the arm a pale-faced, semi-conscious man who wore black and crimson court silks.

So, it was not a fever dream. Hiromasa scrambled to his feet. “Seimei, thank goodness! But where did you come from? Who is that? What shrine is this? Can I leave Nagara here? I must—” Shock iced his body as, belatedly, he remembered Tokimochi. “Seimei, I must find Tokimochi and warn him of the danger!”

Letting go of the unconscious man, Seimei laid a hand on the shrine and half closed his eyes. “Mm,” he said, his expression thoughtful. “Yes. Your friend and Lord Jiro should be safe here under its protection. Where is your other companion?”

Hiromasa pointed. “Tokimochi wanted us to visit his new lady-love. He told us we’d been invited to savour a jar of wine in her company. But as we approached her home, Nagara was seized by an evil spirit. I must go, Seimei, it could still be there—it might attack Tokimochi and his lady!”

Seimei cocked his head, a sharp look in his eyes. “The lady’s house. Was it on the corner of Shio and Ayame streets?”

“Why, yes. How do you know?”

“That’s where I found Jiro.” A grim expression settled on Seimei’s features. “Hurry, Hiromasa. I only pray we are not too late.”

Gathering up his silks once more, Hiromasa chased after Seimei, squelching across the boggy ground. His breath rasped in his throat, fear for Tokimochi’s safety tightening his chest. He darted his gaze over the lady’s house, scanning the windows for sight of his friend or the beautiful occupant, but saw nothing.

“He must be inside,” Hiromasa panted, halting beside Seimei in front of the broken gates. “The east wing seems less dilapidated. I’ll start there.” He took a step towards the property, but Seimei held out an arm, blocking his path.

“Wait.”

Hiromasa looked at his companion, puzzled, then Seimei flipped back his sleeves and chanted a spell, swift and angry. The air flexed with brief clusters of light that dazzled Hiromasa. He ducked away from them, blinking to clear his vision. When he straightened, his gaze fell on a shape that lay half on, half off the steps to the veranda.

He let out a cry and would have rushed forward, but again Seimei held him back.

“You cannot do anything for your friend, Hiromasa.”

“But I must try!”

Seimei looked at him, then sighed. “Very well. We will recover him together.” From his sleeve he took a charm and tucked it into the neck of Hiromasa’s under-robe, then he murmured another spell, sliced his fingers through the air, and walked forward. “Come, Hiromasa. We’re quite safe.”

“ _We_ are,” Hiromasa pushed past him, “but what about Tokimochi?”

He ran through the brambles and weeds towards the house, his heart pounding. The morning glories were starting to fade as the afternoon waned. He winced from the sight of the delicate white flowers splashed with Tokimochi’s blood. Looking at the blooms saved him from looking too closely at the ruin of his friend’s body, but soon enough he had no choice.

Tokimochi lay sprawled, his silks spread around him like broken wings. The rich patterned fabrics were stained a deep crimson. His limbs lay at awkward angles, and his robes had been rent on one side. A leg poked through, the flesh mauled as if by wild animals right down to the bone. His throat had been torn out, and something had clawed at his stomach. Yet for all the agony he must have suffered in his final moments, Tokimochi wore a smile of delight on his face.

Hiromasa sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands. Sobs shook him, a brief storm of emotion before he regained his composure. Lifting his head, he stared at the rotting blinds and lattice screens masking the windows. “Nagara was right. It was a demon, and I didn’t see it. I was distracted by a pretty face, and now one friend is stricken and the other is dead.”

Fists clenched, he shoved himself to his feet. “Seimei, we must defeat it. This demon cannot be allowed to eat my friends!”

“Indeed,” Seimei said dryly. “But for now, let us take Lord Tokimochi’s body away from here, before the demon returns for what’s left of its kill.”

~~~

The gates to Seimei’s estate stood open, the delicate notes of the _kin_ drifting from the veranda and curling across the garden as if in welcome. Hiromasa dismissed his ox-cart and, with a last adjustment to his outfit of figured silk in a combination of indigo and pale grey, strolled towards the house. The scent of night-flowering blooms brushed over him, the sweetness seeming to add to the slow, thoughtful melody Seimei was playing.

Hiromasa climbed the steps onto the veranda and crossed the pools of lamplight that broke the darkness. For the first time in hours, he felt himself relax. He came to the corner of the veranda where they usually sat and stood there in the lee of one of the pillars, simply enjoying the sight before him.

Seimei knelt over the _kin_ , the sleeves of his hunting costume shrugged off to give him the freedom to play. Surrounding him were a scattering of papers and maps. His elegant fingers coaxed forth music that fell like spring rain. Notes slid and blurred; with the sharpened nails of his right hand he plucked a shimmering chord and played through its memory, building emotion with the same ease with which he composed a tune.

The instrument was centuries old and sang only when it pleased or when Seimei asked. Tonight its voice was pitched low and round, apparently matching Seimei’s contemplative mood.

Mitsumushi knelt nearby, swaying to the music. Hiromasa almost wished he’d brought his flute, Ha Futatsu, so he could join in, but in truth he enjoyed watching Seimei play. There was something in the intensity of his friend’s performance that gave him a pleasurable shiver.

The butterfly-spirit noticed him and stood in a flurry of blue and white silk, her pretty face expressing delight. “Hiromasa!”

Seimei stopped playing and spread his hands across the strings to silence them. He tilted his head to look over his shoulder. “Ah. Come in. I was just thinking of you.”

“You were?” Beaming, Hiromasa stepped onto the mats and and looked for his favourite, its edges bound with violet ribbon, before seating himself.

“Yes. The charm I gave you to remove the pollution from contact with Lord Tokimochi’s body—what did you do with it?”

“Oh, I dissolved it in my bath.”

A smile tipped Seimei’s lips. “An unorthodox method, but nevertheless, it worked. You are quite clean, Hiromasa. Clean and pure.”

“Clean and pure!” Mitsumushi repeated with her glittering laugh.

Hiromasa weighed the wisdom of making a flirtatious remark but decided it would, in the circumstances, be inappropriate. He was in mourning for a friend, after all. Instead he offered a grateful smile to Mitsumushi as she skipped forward with a jar of wine and his favourite cup.

“I left Tokimochi’s family making the necessary arrangements. Everyone is in a state of shock, and when they asked me what had happened, I hardly knew what to tell them.” Hiromasa broke off to take a drink, savouring the deep, dark flavour of the vintage. “Especially as word of Nagara’s illness had spread across the whole palace. All I could do was confirm that a demon had attacked us. Tokimochi’s father was inconsolable, and his mother…”

He paused, wondering how to describe her. Lady Tomoe was the daughter of the Minister of War, and more than capable of leading an army into battle herself. “Expect a summons from Tokimochi’s mother tomorrow. At her request, the Bureau of Divination sent her two of your colleagues, but she wasn’t satisfied. She wants the best for her son’s soul, she said.”

“Mm.” Seimei covered the _kin_ with a piece of deep purple silk and set it to one side. “My prayers cannot help Lord Tokimochi now, but I am confident that we can unmask the demon who took his life and had designs upon Lord Jiro.” He shook out his sleeves and stirred a hand through the piles of paper until he found what he was looking for.

“Yes, this is the one. I borrowed it from the Bureau: a map of all known hauntings, as compiled by my esteemed colleagues. Unfortunately there is no reference to the house on the corner of Shio and Ayame streets. That particular estate has been uninhabited for years, and in that part of the city, those who occupy the old houses tend either to seek to avoid notice or move on quickly.”

“Or are devoured by demons.” Hiromasa shuddered, remembering the savage wounds on Tokimochi’s body. Forcing the image from his mind, he looked up. “How did you find Lord Jiro?”

“A locator spell,” Seimei said. He rooted about beneath the papers again and drew out a fan with a soft sound of relief. “I became somewhat alarmed when I saw a blockage on his horoscope. The master who’d cast for him had interpreted it as an accident that changed him in the aftermath, but that was putting a rather optimistic gloss on it. When I realised the danger he was in, I used one of the clepsydrae and— Well. I was just in time.”

“Just in time!” Mitsumushi gave a shiver, the silver bells in her hair tinkling. She made a dramatic pirouette and shrank into her butterfly form, looping about Hiromasa’s head before fluttering out into the garden.

Hiromasa had the feeling that Seimei was omitting rather a lot of detail from his explanation. “Was Lord Jiro able to speak to you when you returned him to his home?”

“Yes. Once assured that he was safe and well, and his wife was ordering the servants to brew restoring tisanes for his strength, Jiro took me into his confidence.”

With a flick, the fan opened. A pale blue wash coloured the background, and in darker blues was described a great wave spackled with white. Seimei stirred the atmosphere with it, and Hiromasa fancied he caught the salt-sharp smell of the sea on the night-breeze.

“Though not quite as voluble as usual,” Seimei continued, “Jiro described a woman of uncommon intelligence living in the house, a woman who had quite turned his head and made him forget his duties, so interesting was she. He thought of her constantly, even neglecting his wife in order to correspond with her.”

“Does the lady have a name?”

“Yoriko.” The fan stilled; Seimei looked over the top of it. “Is that the name of Lord Tokimochi’s lover?”

Hiromasa remembered his friend calling out her name in a joyful tone. “Yes.”

“So.” Expression thoughtful, Seimei folded the fan slowly, one rib at a time, until it lay half closed. “According to Jiro, the lady was older than him but still strikingly beautiful, with clear skin and piercing eyes, and a high forehead that showed her nobility. Her gowns, he said, were rather old-fashioned, her combinations reminding him of those favoured by his grandmother when he was a child.”

Going by that description, the lady Hiromasa had seen at the window was a different woman. She had been young, not older, and her robes… He frowned, trying to focus on what he recollected of her gowns, but he could picture only her pale hand and the perfect oval of her face. No, it couldn’t be the same woman, but perhaps Jiro’s lady had a granddaughter. It was possible that both women shared a name.

“How did your colleague meet the lady?”

Seimei sat back against the pillar and closed the fan. “Jiro was on an errand to the West Temple and afterwards decided to pay a visit to an acquaintance on Shichijo Avenue. He took a detour, became lost, and then, to his surprise, a much-corroded copper timepiece rolled from an open gateway.”

Hiromasa spluttered through his mouthful of wine. “A what?”

A gentle smile curved Seimei’s mouth. “Despite his position in the Bureau, Jiro is rather unworldly. His passions are almost wholly focused on mechanical devices. Instead of questioning why a clockwork diversion stopped at his feet in a rundown part of the city, he immediately bent down to retrieve the object and started a conversation about it with the person he saw half-obscured by undergrowth.”

“Lady Yoriko,” Hiromasa guessed.

“Indeed.” Seimei tossed the fan aside. “They fell to talking, and Jiro was impressed by the lady’s knowledge. Such dazzling insight, such sound logic! She claimed to have visited China in her youth and sat at the feet of sages. Jiro believed her. He said I would, too, if I listened to her speak.”

“Are you not tempted? She sounds like a prodigy.”

“I admit I am curious, but not for the reasons that so enraptured Jiro.” With lazy grace, Seimei removed his lacquered hat and tugged at the twist of mulberry paper binding his topknot. He shook his head, loosening his ink-black hair over his shoulders, the effect softening his sharp features.

Thoroughly distracted, Hiromasa swallowed. “Enraptured,” he echoed. “Yes.”

Seimei gave him an indulgent look. “But somewhere in the back of his mind was an instinct for self-preservation. Jiro said the lady invited him into the house for refreshment so they could continue their discussion, but he refused. He was, however, intrigued enough to begin a correspondence with her. Jiro offered to share the entirety of it with me. He said he was aware that he had been acting as if in a dream since he’d met Lady Yoriko, but he was sure that, once I’d seen the depth and breadth of their writings, I would understand.”

Recovering his wits, Hiromasa was curious. “And? Have you read their letters?”

“I have them here.” From within the breast of his hunting costume Seimei took a packet bound with green ribbon. Untying it, he spread a series of letters across the floor. “Take one and read it.”

Glancing at his friend, Hiromasa made his selection. “You’ve read them all?”

“I have.”

Hiromasa opened the letter. It was blank. Puzzled, he turned it over to see the reverse was similarly empty. He waved it back and forth, as if shaking it would cause the writing to appear. Was this one of Seimei’s tricks? Perhaps if he held it to a flame… He drew a lantern towards him, unlatched the shield, and angled the paper to the light, only to snatch it back when the letter began to scorch. There was no hidden writing.

He glanced at Seimei, who wore an infuriating half smile.

Annoyed, Hiromasa dropped the letter and chose another. It, too, was blank. As was a third, and again a fourth. Confused, he let them fall from his hands and sent Seimei a beseeching look.

“They’re all like that,” Seimei said quietly. “And yet when Jiro waved one at me in his house, I saw that it was closely written.”

“The writing has vanished?”

“I think,” Seimei touched a finger to the letter closest to him, “the correspondence was conjured between them. Lady Yoriko somehow fed on Jiro’s desire for intelligent companionship and an interest in chronometry. The letters were real to him, because he was their source.”

Hiromasa frowned. “Are you saying Lord Jiro wrote the letters to himself?”

“Inadvertently, and in a manner of speaking. Let me demonstrate.” Seimei picked up his fan and handed it over. “Open it, and you will find a response to your poem of this morning.”

“But you haven’t written anything on it.” Nevertheless, when Hiromasa unfolded the fan, he saw a poem in beautiful Running Script written beside the painted wave: 

_Even the Osaka barrier may fall_  
If the torrent behind it  
is strong enough 

Startled, he looked at the back of the fan and then the front again. “How did you do that?”

“It was not I who wrote the poem, but you.” Seimei’s narrow eyes gleamed. “It is the response you imagine I would give, if I were gentleman enough to write you the poetry you deserve.”

Face aflame, Hiromasa folded the fan. He did dream of receiving a passionate reply one day, it was true; a poetic response in the shape of an invitation, such as the one written on the fan. A little shaken by the depth of his disappointment, he said, “So Lady Yoriko knows how to manipulate magic well enough to forge a believable correspondence, but the magic only holds so long as the letters are in contact with the person to whom they were addressed.”

Seimei inclined his head. “Yes.”

A thought occurred. “What did her calligraphy look like, on the letters you saw?” Hiromasa felt about in his own robes. Though he had changed his clothes when he’d gone home to bathe, he’d slipped the bundle of poems into his cloak just in case they held a clue. “Tokimochi lent me some of the poems written to him by his lady. I read them when I was alone. Her hand is quite distinctive, and her verse style is, ah, unique. Therefore Tokimochi’s Yoriko can’t be the same as Jiro’s lady.”

A tiny frown drew Seimei’s brows together. “Did you read the poems at home?”

“No, at my rooms in the palace.”

His expression cleared. “Ah, then there is your answer. Lord Tokimochi also had rooms at the palace. No matter how large it is, the palace is a shared space. You and Tokimochi were, to all intents and purposes, beneath the same roof, and so the magic held.”

Hiromasa slid one of the poems free and ascertained that it was a completely blank piece of paper. He flicked through the rest, and every one was pristine. “Then,” his throat thickened as unease crept up his spine, “it must be the same woman, but with different faces.”

“Different faces for different men,” Seimei said, tapping his fingers on the floor. “She lured Jiro by promising intellectual stimulation and Lord Tokimochi by offering physical delights. Your friend was fooled enough to set foot in her house, and he paid with his life.”

The image of the beautiful young woman he’d glimpsed came to mind. Hiromasa examined his memory of her lovely face. She had looked resigned, perhaps even a little afraid. Was she really another facet of Lady Yoriko, or was she simply a maid trapped in that mouldering estate with a demon? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to walk past the house tomorrow, just to be sure…

He jumped when Seimei seized his hand.

“You must not under any circumstances go near that house again, Hiromasa.” Seimei leaned close, his grip tight. “Do you hear me? You must not go near the place.”

Hiromasa met his gaze and nodded. “I won’t,” he said. “I swear it.”

~~~

“I was wrong to tease you about Lord Seimei.” Nagara smiled briefly, his face wan and his forehead sheened with perspiration. His hands lay on top of his piled robes, and between his fingers he clutched a plain rosary.

The entrance to his palace rooms was draped with paper charms, and a clearing incense smouldered in a corner, but Nagara still looked poorly. He’d only glanced at the jar of wine Hiromasa had brought as a gift, and made no mention of the ladies who glided along the corridor past his room, their silk gowns hushing.

“Wrong?” Hiromasa echoed. The atmosphere was very close in the room, and he was sleepy. He shifted position, sucking in a breath as the movement pulled at the scratches Seimei had left on his back. The discomfort melded into pleasure at the memory of how he’d earned those scratches, and he almost missed Nagara’s next words.

“Yes, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mocked the importance of taboos.” Nagara plucked at the cloth covering him and began to pleat it. “It was kind of him to come this morning in order to give me these charms and the incense. I doubt all yin yang masters are so considerate.”

Hiromasa looked at his friend, perturbed. Seimei had still been asleep when he’d slipped away from the house shortly after the hour of the Dragon. Hiromasa had fully intended to return to their cosy bed after he’d discharged a few duties at the palace, but now it seemed that, as soon as he’d left, Seimei had got up and gone about business of his own.

A little deflated, Hiromasa asked, “Seimei did all this?”

“Because I am your friend, he said.” This time, Nagara’s smile was warm. “I know it was not for my sake he did it. He is devoted to you, Hiromasa. I only wish I had a lover as generous. Not even the Lady Chamberlain from last year’s Flag Iris Festival was as dedicated to my needs—remember her, the one with the pretty arched feet and she had a cousin, the dancer with the short hair…”

“I remember.” Hiromasa patted Nagara’s hand as he absorbed the information his friend had just imparted. “When he was here, did Seimei ask you about what happened yesterday?”

“He asked if I could describe what I had seen.” The animation seemed to drain from Nagara’s face. “I didn’t want to think of it, but he told me the best way to exorcise a bad memory was to share it with someone else. And who better than a yin yang master?”

“Oh, yes,” Hiromasa agreed. “What did you see, by the way? I recall you saying something about a monster with burning eyes…”

A shudder racked his friend’s body. “That’s what I saw. A creature so fearsome it turned my limbs to stone. I am reckoned a brave man, you know that—but Hiromasa, when that—that _thing_ faced me, all I could think of was running away!”

“That’s not true.” Saddened by Nagara’s loss of confidence, Hiromasa spoke stoutly. “You tried to save me. You told me to run and that you would protect me. You drew your bow, remember?”

Nagara turned his face away to look at the paper charms above the door. “I remember how heavy the arrow seemed, and how I dropped my weapon like a coward. I remember panicking.” He rolled his head on the pillow, anxiety in his gaze. “Hiromasa, what if I was hallucinating? We walked in a forbidden direction, and the air in that part of the city… Well, it’s unclean, and there were all those insects…” His hand strayed to where he’d been bitten. “What if my mind was playing tricks, and I saw not a demon but a harmless old woman?”

Hiromasa exhaled and sat back, his thoughts chasing in circles. All morning he’d been pondering on whether what he and Seimei had discussed last night could have a simpler explanation. That Lady Yoriko was not a demon who’d devoured Tokimochi, but was herself a helpless victim of a yet-unnamed creature who kept the beautiful young woman prisoner.

He’d lain awake into the small hours, thinking of that pale hand he’d seen, that lovely face glimpsed at the window. The more he’d thought about it, the more certain he’d felt. The demon and the lady were separate entities. And now here was Nagara coming to the same conclusion. Or, well, not the same, exactly, but something similar.

Hiromasa frowned and rubbed at his forehead. His thoughts felt so muddled today. Perhaps he’d over-exerted himself last night.

“My behaviour must have frightened the poor old dear,” his friend continued. “I must have seemed quite unbalanced. A guardsman suddenly aiming his weapon at her! What was I thinking? And yet,” Nagara’s voice hitched, “it seemed so real. She looked like a monster. But—” embarrassment creased his features, “that is an ungentlemanly thing to say, and I pray you’ll forget this whole matter, Hiromasa!”

“Of course.”

Nagara fidgeted, pushing at the robes as if to sit up. “I couldn’t rest last night for thinking about it. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her—an elderly gentlewoman fallen on hard times. Her plight tugs at my heart! And I was so uncouth as to call her a monster. What an embarrassment.” He tried to kick aside the blanketing layers. “I should go and apologise.”

“Go to the lady’s house? Oh no, you shouldn’t do that.” Hiromasa laid a hand on Nagara’s shoulder and pushed him back down onto the sleeping mat with more force than was necessary. He smoothed the robes over the top and smiled brightly. “She might become even more afraid to see you at her door. I think you should write her a note, and I’ll deliver it for you.”

“I was hoping you’d say that, for I’ve already written one.” A shy smile on his lips, Nagara reached beneath a layer of silk and pulled out a letter. “You are a good man, Hiromasa. A true friend.”

“Think nothing of it.” Hiromasa slipped the note into his cloak and stood to take his leave. “I hope you feel better soon.”

Nagara snuggled back beneath the pile of robes. “Me too. As soon as I regain my strength, I’ll go in person to apologise to the old lady.” His laughter sounded wheezy. “I’ll bet she has some pretty young maids, eh?”

“No doubt,” Hiromasa said. “Sleep now. I’ll see the letter delivered safely.”

~~~

Hiromasa hadn’t started the day with the intention of breaking his promise to Seimei, but now he’d given his word to Nagara to deliver the letter, what else could he do? A man’s reputation was all he had, when it came down to it. If he should become known as someone unreliable, indifferent to the wishes of his friends, well then, he might as well retire from court and go live in some far-flung province!

These justifications, and others far more elaborate, cheered Hiromasa on his route from the palace to the south-west corner of the capital. His sword tapped against his thigh as he strolled, his black court silks swirling in his wake. Passing the walls of West Market, he caught the stink of butchered meat and fried food, and heard the clamour of the traders inside.

Burly toughs loitered outside the taverns that lined one of the streets, and girls in gauzy gowns leaned out of windows, trailing their hair down about their shoulders and calling to him in accents refined and common. Music and laughter spilled from pleasure pavilions. A cart laden with jars of wine bumped across the rutted street. A cat chased a one-eared hound, and on a corner, two men played _go_ on a board scratched onto a paving slab that seemed to have been stolen from the other side of the city.

Nagara’s letter rustled as he walked. It wouldn’t take long to deliver it. There was no harm in passing by the house on the corner of Shio and Ayame. Seimei’s warning was kindly meant, of course, but Hiromasa could look after himself. The events of yesterday had forewarned him, and he was ready for any demonic activity.

It wasn’t as though he would actually set foot on the property, as poor Tokimochi had done. No, Hiromasa would be careful to remain on the street and observe from a safe distance. If he saw the beautiful woman again, then he would call out to her, encourage her to come to him—and to safety.

Hiromasa congratulated himself on his extensive preparation. Not only had he discussed the situation with Seimei and interviewed Nagara, earlier this morning he’d also spent an hour in the archives at the Board of Censors. After doing a favour for an acquaintance there yesterday, he’d called in a favour of his own. A little research had revealed that Lady Yoriko’s property had last been occupied during the reign of the Emperor Kammu, almost two hundred years ago.

It was astonishing that the house was not more dilapidated, given its age. From this, Hiromasa deduced that someone was indeed living there permanently. Someone who made the occasional repairs but couldn’t afford to pay for a full restoration. Someone who had neglected to enrol themselves on the census and therefore lived outside of civilised society.

In short, the occupant was surely a criminal of some sort. An evildoer who forced the innocent Lady Yoriko to conspire in the manipulation of magic and in luring Tokimochi to his death!

Buoyed up with confidence at his very good and not at all manufactured reasons for visiting the house, Hiromasa turned onto Shio Street and approached the corner plot. From this direction, the property appeared even more disreputable. The east wing, which he’d thought had looked quite stable yesterday, had half of its roof missing, with blackened beams poking through the bedraggled sedge. Paint peeled from columns, and the covered walkways were almost obscured by huge tangles of weeds and banks of twining morning glories.

Slowing his pace, Hiromasa walked around the corner towards the broken gates. He kept his gaze on the house, watching for any sign of the mysterious lady. The rotten blinds flapped forlornly, but no pale hand appeared to draw them back, no matter how hard he looked.

He came to the gates and eyed the path that Tokimochi had made yesterday, running to greet his mistress. The same path Hiromasa and Seimei had taken to retrieve the unfortunate young man’s body.

Something flickered in the darkness beyond the double doors. Was that a light gleaming within? He leaned forward, straining to see. There—further movement! The swish of silken robes, perhaps…

The blinds moved as if someone stood behind them.

“Lady!” Hiromasa called. “Lady Yoriko!”

Stillness descended upon the house.

Uncertain what to do next, Hiromasa dithered. Taking a deep breath, he planted one booted foot solidly on the other side of the gate. Heart pounding, he brought his other foot through and stood in the garden.

Nothing happened. Insects still droned, and the atmosphere felt as close as it had yesterday. Glancing towards the pond, he noticed that the dead carp had been mangled some more, its head torn off and its slimy entrails glistening on the grass. Wrinkling his nose, Hiromasa put a hand on the hilt of his sword, flipped the train of his robe over his free arm, and picked his way through the undergrowth to the house.

The morning glories turned their faces to him. A cicada began its sawing from nearby, the noise so loud Hiromasa forced himself to check that the insect hadn’t suddenly grown to monstrous size. He saw nothing, but when he turned back, he realised his palms were slippery. Tension sat in his stomach like a stone.

He came to the steps and ascended, placing his feet with care to avoid the rotten timbers and gaping holes. His silks snagged on a splinter, and he bent to unhook the fabric. When he stood again, he wondered why he’d been so cautious. There were no holes, no shattered planks! True, the veranda needed to be polished with muku leaves, but there was nothing wrong with it, structurally.

Hiromasa shook his head and laughed at himself. Another instance of his eyes playing tricks on him, just like yesterday! Or, wait—had he seen the old lady or was that Nagara? No, it was Nagara. Heavens, his head was so full of thoughts. Too many thoughts, really. He hoped the lady would offer him some wine soon. Wine cleared the mind.

The cicada stopped.

Hiromasa stood on the veranda, his vision swimming in and out of focus. The flowers in the garden leered at him. The roof seemed to be caving in, but then it was whole, and perfect. Where was the lady of the pale hands? He had to find her. He had to—

“Hello, Hiromasa.”

A gasp burst from him. Hiromasa spun around, his sword clattering against a pillar. He put a hand on the column for support and felt moisture ooze beneath his palm. He blinked, and the world snapped into sharpness.

Seimei sat upon a reed mat on the veranda, the train of his hunting costume unfurled behind him and his sleeves spread out in a pleasing shape. He tapped his fan on the floorboards and gave a half-smile, though his gaze narrowed and his eyebrows lifted in an expression that managed to convey amusement, disappointment, and enquiry all at once.

Hiromasa immediately felt guilty. “Seimei! What are you doing here?”

The fan flicked open, the image painted upon it a pine tree worked in green and gold upon a dark blue background. “I came for the same reason that brought you—the chance of a conversation with the lady.”

“I came here to deliver a note from Nagara.” Hiromasa patted at his cloak and, producing the letter, waved it as proof of his altruism. “And,” he admitted, wilting a little under Seimei’s steady gaze, “I wanted to see the lady I glimpsed yesterday. But you, Seimei, you are being very unfair! Last night you told me to stay away from this place. I thought you had my best interests at heart, but now I realise you were—you were…”

It was hard to think straight. Hiromasa shook his head, trying to clear the jumbling fog from his mind. What was that smell? Incense? He recognised it. Something sweet and earthy, something… He groped for the memory.

“I was what?” Seimei tilted his head with an expression of genuine interest.

“I don’t know.” Hiromasa sank down onto the veranda and breathed deeply. The morning glories seemed to writhe towards him, their pale faces alive with malice. But that was ridiculous. Flowers were flowers, unless… He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

“I have a letter.” He lifted his head and stumbled to his feet. Conscious of his dignity, he arranged his court dress and turned to the woman concealed behind a lattice screen. How gauche, to ignore her all this time! He bowed. “My lady.”

“Careful, Hiromasa.”

Hiromasa turned to look at Seimei, but his friend’s voice seemed to slide away. There was a white blur where Seimei sat. He shook his head, fixing his attention on the screen in front of him.

A charming peal of laughter rang out. The lady’s sleeves peeped from beneath the lattice, a bold combination of figured silks in cherry blossom and deepest blue-green that hinted at her rank. Though her features were obscured, Hiromasa could glimpse the long train of her shining black hair.

“Lord Hiromasa.” Her voice was low and musical. “It has been a long time since one of such distinguished lineage paid court to me.”

“Ah?” He rubbed the back of his neck, and his hand came away wet. Hiromasa glanced at it, thinking it was perspiration, and gave a start when he saw blood. 

Memory flexed. The image of Tokimochi sprang to the forefront of his mind. He saw again the horror of his friend’s mutilated corpse flung from the steps. The morning glories stirred and whispered, their pale faces splattered with blood. That smell teased his nose, sweet, dark, over-ripe.

He rose in a fluster—when had he knelt? Where was he?—and took a step back.

A pale hand lifted the lattice. The woman within leaned forward, silks shuffling, until daylight fell on her face.

A sigh escaped him. At the sight of her, all Hiromasa’s misgivings fled. Lady Yoriko was even more beautiful than he’d imagined from yesterday’s brief glimpse. Her face was a perfect oval, her moth-brows dusky circles on a proud forehead. Her hair rippled and flowed, scented with that fragrance that still teased him. And her eyes… Her eyes shone with admiration and hope as she looked at him.

 _Hiromasa_.

He put a hand to his head and frowned. His name lapped at the inside of his skull, the voice familiar but distant. He tried to identify the owner of the voice, but the name kept slipping from him as soon as he thought he had it.

The lattice unravelled and dropped away. Now he was seated on the reed mat with the lady. His sleeves had been cast over hers, so close was their proximity. For modesty’s sake she held a fan, but she revealed her face to him in increments: the corner of her smile, the delicacy of her jaw, her brilliant eyes.

Dazzled, Hiromasa saw only her. His name continued to roll through him, becoming more insistent, but he pushed it away. He had no time for, no interest in, anything but her.

“It’s such a pity that your time of mourning prevents you from coming to the palace,” he told her. “You would surely be an ornament of the court, an intimate of the Empress and a favourite of the Emperor. Poets would fight to sing your praises. Ah, Lady Yoriko, it is too sad that you dwell here alone and unhappy!”

She tipped the fan so it brushed her pale cheek, and her brow furrowed prettily. “You are kind, my lord, but I must admit to some confusion. I am not in mourning. Who told you otherwise?”

“Forgive me, but... Then you are not a widow? Your husband wasn’t some deputy provincial governor?” Even as he spoke, Hiromasa wondered where he’d heard such nonsense.

Lady Yoriko hid her face, her hair spilling over her shoulders. “You must be thinking of another woman, my lord.” There was a trace of sadness in her tone.

“I’m not! How could I, when I sit before you?” Hiromasa tried to take her hand, but she withdrew from him, inching away so her patterned sleeves slithered across the mat.

“Men are so inconstant in their attentions.” Her voice trembled; he fancied he saw a tear glistening in her eye. “I may not be a widow, my lord, but I have suffered all the same. I have been subjected to thoughtless cruelty by those who should have protected and cared for me. Thus my heart lies shattered, too, and I can no longer trust the word of any man, no matter how noble!”

Hiromasa squirmed around onto his knees. “You can trust me, Yoriko!”

The lady tossed her head. Tears ran down her face, but she was brave in her sorrow, and looked all the more beautiful. “Words come easily to you, Minamoto no Hiromasa, but you should know that actions carry more weight.”

“How can I prove myself?” he cried, captivated by her fiery mien. “I have come here against the wishes of—of—” He couldn’t remember who’d warned him away from this house, or why, so changed tack: “Only tell me what must be done to mend your broken heart, my lady, and if it is within my power, I will see it accomplished.”

Her expression changed, the fan flapping aside to show her smile. “You mean well. They always do. But there is nothing to be done, my lord, for I was abandoned by my family.

“My parents were taken from me by the plague when I was still a child, and my older brother had the raising of me. He was noble, not as high-ranking as you, Lord Hiromasa, but not so low that you would take him in disgust. He was considerate and kind, and encouraged me to learn music and poetry, so I might make a good match when I came of age to marry.”

Lady Yoriko’s face dimmed, and she seemed to shrink inside her robes. “My brother was the most excellent of men, but he had two vices. He was a dreamer and a gambler. His friends encouraged him in his folly, and before long I found myself carried off to the estate of a stranger to me. To _this_ estate, my lord.”

Hiromasa followed her gesture, seeing the shabby furniture and threadbare cushions, the cobwebs in the corners and the velvet grey dust covering every surface.

“My new husband had won me in a game of _go_.” Her voice was brittle, and her fingers so tight upon her fan that her knuckles shone white. “My brother had been faced with a choice. Either he wagered our home, with all our ancestral belongings and our servants, or he wagered me, his only sibling. He took what he thought was the right decision.”

“But that’s monstrous!” Hiromasa cried. “Your brother’s name, my lady. Tell me who he is, so I can see him stripped of his honorary ranks for causing you such shame!”

She bowed her head. “My tale is not yet ended.”

“Ah.” He subsided and sat quietly. “Please, continue.”

“The first night here, I lay awake until cockcrow, waiting for my new husband to appear. He never came. It was the same the night after, and the night after that. The only servant about the place was an old woman—”

Hiromasa nodded. That must be the elderly lady Nagara had seen yesterday.

“She told me this house belonged to my husband’s family, but it was not his primary residence. His principal wife was settled in a fine house on Rokujo Avenue, and I was shut away here in the south-west of the city! I wrote to him at once, demanding an explanation. The letter he wrote in response was a masterpiece of cruelty. He did not need or want a second wife, he said, but he had felt obliged to accept me out of the affection he had for my brother. I should not concern myself, my husband wrote, as I would be a bride only a short time, and soon my brother would take me back home.”

“I’ve never heard anything so appalling!” Hiromasa tried to get up, but felt unable to move.

Lady Yoriko dabbed at her eyes. “It seems I was taken as surety for the goods my brother promised to deliver to my husband. He could not sell our family home, so he sold his courtier’s rank, invested in a ship, and went into trade. I know it is beyond the pale for one of the good people to dirty their hands with trade, but my brother was a dreamer, my lord, as I said. He dreamed of coming home a wealthy man.”

Pity welled in Hiromasa’s breast. “What happened?”

She sat motionless, staring at her fan. “As soon as my brother left these shores, my husband sent a messenger notifying me of our divorce. All along, he had wanted my brother’s position at court. Now he had purchased my brother’s titles, I was unnecessary. He said he was not a cruel man; I could remain living in this house, as he had no further use for it, just as he had no use for me.

“Only imagine, I was divorced before I had even been a wife.” Lady Yoriko laid down the fan and folded her pale hands in her lap. “As for my brother, he never came home. Pirates attacked his ship as he returned from an expedition to Korea. All those on board were slain.

“So you see, my lord,” she looked up, her face uncovered in all its radiant beauty, “I am an orphan, the last of my family, abandoned by my brother and rejected by a husband who was not a husband to me. I live here in the shadows because I have no one to speak for me.”

Her desperate tale moved Hiromasa almost to tears. “I will speak for you, Lady Yoriko. I will take you away from this place and you shall live in the sunshine again. You will have friends and admirers and a place at court, and you will be happy.”

“Oh, Lord Hiromasa. You’re too kind.” A tremulous smile glittered through her tears. She reached out to him, and he took her hands, and then—

“Hiromasa!” Seimei’s voice, sharp and commanding, smashed through the illusion.

Hiromasa blinked, his head clearing. The rank smell of death, sickly sweet, clogged his nose and throat, making him gag. He saw the sky through the gaping holes in the roof, saw timbers damaged by gnawing insects and prolonged exposure to the elements. Rat droppings lay scattered about the floor, alongside bones picked clean of all flesh. Not small bones, like those found in rodents or game birds, but large bones.

Human bones, Hiromasa realised, his horrified gaze landing on a human skull.

A yell built in his chest. Terrified, he looked at Lady Yoriko.

No longer was he hand in hand with a beautiful young woman. Instead he held onto a hideous monster in female shape. Her skin the blue-green of putrefaction, her long hair snarled into matted grey clumps, she was scarcely recognisable. Her gowns were tattered, the silk rotting on her body. Her eyes were milky with age, but still gleamed with unholy intelligence and cunning.

When she opened her mouth, a foul stink came out. Her lips were smeared with cosmetics, and rotten meat was caught between the blackened stumps of her teeth. She batted her eyelashes, head tilted to a coquettish angle. An insect crawled from her nostril and dropped onto her lap.

Hiromasa screamed and jumped back. He tripped over his sword and went sprawling, his elbow punching a hole through the rotten planks of the veranda.

Yoriko’s face changed again. Her jaw dropped open and she shrieked, the sound as deafening as the summer rains. Noxious fumes blasted him. Hiromasa yelled, trying to yank his arm free to get at his sword. She advanced, jaw dragging on the floor, her teeth growing long and vicious and slick with saliva, her tongue reaching for him.

She was going to _eat_ him. She would rip him apart as she’d torn into Tokimochi, and she would crunch his bones. Hiromasa took a deep breath. If he was going to die at the hands of a demon, at least he would die with dignity.

She lunged at him, and a golden barrier flashed up to throw her back. Fury crossed Yoriko’s features, but she gathered herself and came at him again.

Hiromasa hauled himself free of the hole. Staggering to his feet, he unsheathed his sword and held it two-handed in front of him. When the demon’s onward rush was deflected by a second golden flash, he felt brave enough to glance around for the source of its power.

“Seimei? Did you— _do_ something?”

Seimei came gliding from the shadows, the trailing width of his sleeves turned back and magical energy fizzing around his fingertips. He took his place beside Hiromasa, arching an eyebrow in his direction.

“Did you really think I would let you come here unprotected? For shame, Hiromasa.” His dark eyes glittered, amusement chased off by focus. “Here she comes. Hold her off; I must perform the ritual.”

With a screech that brought down more of the rotten sedge, the demon attacked. Hiromasa blocked her, gasping at the force that shockwaved through the blade into his arms. He braced himself and cut the sword at her, succeeding in slicing off a piece of the sagging, dirty sleeve of her robe.

Seimei circled behind him, chanting rapidly. He darted forward and stamped, the floorboards of the veranda squealing in protest, and when the demon lunged forward, Hiromasa stepped in to protect him.

“How much longer?” Hiromasa cried, as the demon came at them again. Teeth gritted, he met her attack, muscles straining as he tried to throw her off. Around him, Seimei continued stamping and chanting, his voice louder and louder. The air stirred from stillness into a breeze, from a breeze into a wind, and then flickers of white crackled about them, joining into a jagged net of energy that became a blinding flash of intense power.

Hiromasa’s sword dropped to the floor. Blinking, he crouched to retrieve it, his head still ringing from the roar of the wind and his eyes still blinded by the light. He curled his fingers around the hilt of his weapon and stood, breathing in the warmth of the afternoon and the scent of the garden.

Seimei stood near a pillar, studying a scorch mark blasted into the floorboards. He took his fan from inside his hunting costume and flipped it open, a pair of white cranes in a display dance before the red circle of the setting sun.

“Well,” he said, voice low and thoughtful.

Hiromasa heaved a sigh and tipped his head back, relief loosening the tension in his body.

Stillness fell, thick and heavy, and the morning glories resumed their creep across the ruin of a once proud estate.

~~~

“How did you know I would visit Lady Yoriko again?”

Seimei smiled. “Because you’re curious.”

Hiromasa abandoned his attempt to pick up a baked yam—the thing _moved_ each time he touched it, and now his fingertips were stinging with heat and he had the feeling that the yam was laughing at him—and dabbled his sore fingers in his wine-cup. Casting Seimei a glance, he said, “That’s not a bad thing for a person to be.”

“It’s one of the things I like most about you.” Seimei sat leaning against the pillar on his veranda, the sleeves of his hunting costume unlaced and his bare feet peeking out from beneath the billowing folds of his hakama. His narrow eyes gleamed.

In the garden, Mitsumushi in butterfly form flittered in a series of acrobatic manoeuvres above the nodding heads of flowers. Beyond the city wall, the mountains greyed into shadow as the evening drew on and the air grew soft with the promise of night. Incense burned on a brazier, a soft, dark fragrance that smelled remarkably similar to the one Hiromasa had offered at the shrine in the south-west quarter.

Relaxed and replete, Hiromasa wiped his fingers and reclined on an elbow. One appetite satisfied, he was in the mood to know more about the creature they’d vanquished this afternoon. “So, Seimei. Tell me, what manner of demon was Lady Yoriko?”

“An _ao nyobu_.” Seimei picked up the yam and rolled it across the floor. It knocked against a standing curtain, turned into a bell cricket, and sprang away. “They inhabit dilapidated old houses, spending their days in dreams of their youth, making themselves look beautiful in case a man should chance along to see them. They are the spirits of women scorned and abandoned, and when the opportunity arises for them to revenge themselves, they take it without remorse.”

Hiromasa shivered. “They eat men?”

“In most instances, I’m sure the man deserves it.” Seimei lifted his fan from the floor and opened it to examine the painting of an azalea in full bloom. “But Lady Yoriko was a most interesting example of the _ao nyobu_. I was unable to ascertain her precise age—”

“I can help with that,” Hiromasa said, interrupting. “I checked in the archival documents at the Board of Censors and discovered the last registered occupant of the house lived during the reign of Emperor Kammu.”

“Very good, Hiromasa. It’s entirely possible that she transformed into a demon around that time.” Seimei tapped the fan against his lips. “Perhaps it’s the house’s proximity to the river and the magic it carries, but over time Yoriko developed the ability to present different faces and different attitudes as a method of luring her victims. An ordinary _ao nyobu_ may wait years, even decades, before a man intrudes upon her solitude. Yoriko refused to be so passive. You have to admire her, really.”

“I do?” Hiromasa thought he would never admire any demon.

“Oh, yes,” Seimei continued, cheerfully. “The ladies at court have only two faces, the one they present in public and the one they keep for themselves in private. Lady Yoriko had mastered the art of arranging her face in an infinite variety of ways. Offering me sympathy and understanding. Promising Jiro the chance of intellectual conversation. Posing as a seductress for your unfortunate friend Tokimochi…”

“To Nagara she appeared as a monster,” Hiromasa said, “but apparently she was too successful, for her terrifying aspect made him swoon rather than rush to do battle with her, which was no doubt what she intended him to do. When I spoke to him this morning, he’d convinced himself his eyes had played tricks on him and he was ready to offer his apologies in person…”

“And for that meeting I imagine she’d have taken the form of a lovely young woman again, since it seemed to work so well on others.” Seimei’s tone was dry. “Yes, it was a pity to banish her. But she threatened you, and I could not allow that. Her magic started working on your mind as soon as you set eyes on her, clouding your thoughts and making you doubt what was real and what illusion.”

“She seemed lovely to me,” Hiromasa confessed. “But it wasn’t simply her beauty that attracted me. It was her story. She was a tragic figure who suffered terrible misfortunes, from losing her parents at a young age to being bartered by her brother to a man who didn’t want her, and then losing her brother in a dreadful twist of fate…”

He broke off, wondering at the fantastical tale he’d been told. Was any of it true?

Seimei threw him an affectionate look. “Admit it, Hiromasa. You are very susceptible to tragic ladies.”

Hiromasa scowled, but that _was_ true. He poured more wine into his cup and settled down onto his favourite mat. “What of you, Seimei? You said she offered you sympathy. How did she appear to you?”

His friend was silent for so long, Hiromasa thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, with a faint sigh and a twitch of his shoulders, Seimei said, “Yoriko presented herself to me as the offspring of a _tennyo_ and a huntsman. Like her mother, she was beautiful and graceful; but while her mother had wings and could soar above mortal concerns to the holy places in the mountains, Yoriko was earthbound.

“Grounded, unable to fly, she was trapped alone with no one to understand her.” The ghost of a smile crossed Seimei’s face. “She asked me how I could bear the burden of living in two worlds. If I, like her, experienced the crushing sorrow of having to exist in two worlds, caught between humankind and the realm of the supernatural.”

Hiromasa abandoned his wine and sat up. “Seimei…”

“I know.” Seimei lifted a hand to stay him, the smile turning rueful. “I know, Hiromasa. She played on my fears as easily as she used her appearance and wove her tales to ensnare you, your friends, and Jiro.”

“You are not alone, Seimei,” Hiromasa said, rather robustly. “You will never be alone while I still draw breath. That is a promise I can keep.”

His conviction won him a deeper smile.

“Ah, Hiromasa. You really are a very good man. And now…” Folding his fan, Seimei tucked it into his hakama and stood, silks whispering about him. He paced a short distance towards the inner chambers, and as he went, he let something drop.

Hiromasa reached for it at the same time as it rolled towards him. A letter of rather fine Korean paper, knotted around a yellow camellia. Opening it, his pulse racing and anticipation curling his toes, he saw not a poem but a statement.

Seimei paused his footsteps. Keeping his back turned, he said softly, his words rolling through the hall to echo the blunt calligraphy on the page: “I have no gift for poetry. Words are spells; they wound and they bind. Instead I speak with silence, and hope you understand me.”

Hiromasa dropped the letter and surged to his feet. “Seimei!”

Laughing, Seimei turned and welcomed Hiromasa into his embrace.


End file.
